Something To Talk About
by englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Sherlock can't understand why he always does what his flatmate asks. For once, John is the observant one, but he needs a plan. Enter: The NSY holiday party, too much punch, and a karaoke contest.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock groaned. "But Jooohn –"

"No, Sherlock. Just… no. This year you are GOING."

When the MET Christmas party had been cancelled due to inclement weather, Sherlock had assumed his promise to attend had met with a similarly satisfactory fate. Cancelled Christmas Party turned out to be Rescheduled Holiday Party, which was clearly an entirely separate event. Yet despite days of protests, largely in the form of increasingly caustic-smelling experiments on the kitchen table, John was insisting that the original RSVP stand.

"I don't see why this year should be different than any other. My not going is expected. It's… _tradition."_ Watching his flatmate pause to consider, a smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Finally, an argument that appealed to John's logic (if it could be called that). He loved the holidays, and he loved holiday traditions even more. Surely this would –

"Nope. No. You're going." And with a satisfied nod, John grabbed his coat and started down the stairs. Just as Sherlock was opening his mouth to make a vague threat about how he intended to behave if forced to attend, John's voice echoed up the stairwell. "And you will be nice." The front door slammed shut before the petulant consulting detective could get in another word.

Damn. Damn damn damn. Crossing to the window, he watched John walk toward the Tesco, slight victorious bounce in his step. So what if John said he had to go. He had a diseased pancreas in the refrigerator, ten soil samples to subject to a range of acidic compounds, and to top it all off, it was cold. He would stay home tomorrow night. He would do what he liked.

Except he knew he wouldn't. Why did John have this power over him? Why did he always do as John asked? (Commanded? instructed, more like.) This loss of freedom was getting a bit out of hand and required investigation if he hoped to regain the controlling share of his own life. Or at least avoid the NSY holiday party, with Lestrade's potent, sugary punch, the hideous jumper contest, and Anderson's… Anderson. Nose wrinkling in disgust at that last thought, Sherlock pulled his dressing gown close against his less-lean-than-in-November frame ("too many Christmas sweets, damn that Mrs. Hudson"), threw himself carelessly onto the sofa, and retreated into his Mind Palace to the John H. Watson, MD suite.

As he progressed through the space reserved for his army doctor ( _his_ army doctor? Hm. File that away for later consideration), Sherlock idly fingered the objects on the shelves while analyzing the problem at hand. John was Sherlock's friend. His best friend. He cared for John. Obvious. Therefore, he wanted his friend to be happy. Although that was rather significant, as concern for most people's happiness fell into the category of sentimentality – boring – that didn't explain the need Sherlock felt to agree, to please him as often as possible, to exchange his own comfort and desires for that of his flatmate.

Desires. Sherlock sunk down into John's chair, in its place of honor at the center of the Watson Wing (when had it become it's own wing?) before a crackling fire. Something about the word desire struck a chord, but as he inhaled the scent of his closest friend, he grew drowsy and there, alone but surrounded by reminders of his John ( _his_ John?) the detective drifted off to sleep.

"Sherlock." The sound came from a distance, muffled as if he was underwater.

"Sherlock. SHERLOCK." Grey-green eyes snapped open. The apartment was dark except for the light from the kitchen. Long, tense limbs stretched the length of the sofa as he took in his surroundings. Street lamps. Take out, Thai, on the kitchen table. Still hot tea next to him on the floor. John was home. John. Sherlock could feel something just out of reach at the edge of his mind, but was interrupted by the sight of his friend smiling as he entered from upstairs.

John Watson. In thin pajama pants, an army green cotton t-shirt, and his striped dressing gown. As John moved into the room saying something about watching a movie, his words were less interesting than the tight pull of his shirt across his strong pectoral muscles. Though he had put on some weight since leaving the army, the truth was that he hid quite a body beneath those awful jumpers. The flex of his chest, the strength of his biceps, the… oh.

 _Oh. Oh oh oh._

As John settled in on the sofa, pulling a blanket down onto both of their laps, it was all Sherlock could do to keep from visibly tensing. It was only transport, he thought, he could control this. He would have to, and quickly. For all his lack of social aptitude, Sherlock was certain that being caught with an erection caused by your "not gay" best friend who was eating popcorn a few inches away fell squarely into the category of A Bit Not Good.


	2. Chapter 2

Upon arriving home, John had found 221B dark. Flicking on the kitchen lights, he could make out the prone figure of his flatmate on the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin. Mind palace then. After putting away the shopping (avoiding a particularly disgusting pancreas on the bottom shelf), he set about making two cups of tea. Even if it went cold before Sherlock "returned," he would surely hear about his lack of consideration. As if the git knew anything about being considerate. John let out a small, somewhat exasperated chuckle as he walked quietly into the living room and deposited the hot tea next to the…

Wait. Those breaths were much too even, and his eyelids were fluttering slightly. Was he? Could he be? Sleeping?! An afternoon nap wouldn't be a strange occurrence for anyone else, but with no recent cases above a 6 to wear the detective out, John was in shock. He stood watching his younger friend for a moment. Not so young as when they had first met, but certainly no worse for wear. The raven curls falling against his porcelain skin, a slight flush on those ridiculous cheekbones, his lithe yet surprisingly powerful body.

"Hmm." John startled himself with an audible sigh of appreciation for the man laid out before him. For a second he began justifying these thoughts to himself, then mentally threw up his hands. Who was he kidding. He had been growing increasingly more attracted to his flatmate for months. _If we're finally going to be honest, Watson, let's just be honest._ Fine. He had been growing less able to ignore his attraction to his flatmate for months. He supposed it didn't much matter. Eventually, Sherlock would deduce his true feelings, and hopefully his distaste for sentiment (John knew it was bollocks, but he allowed Sherlock to keep up the charade) would enable them to continue on as they were. Maybe he would even get over it soon, though one more glance at that gorgeous face, softened by the vulnerability of sleep, made him seriously doubt it.

* * *

While the marshmallow man attacked the city and Sherlock blathered on about the implausibility of ghost-capturing rays, the good doctor absently ate his popcorn and contemplated the development of an hour previous.

After attempting to wake the consulting couch jockey and changing into pajamas, John had returned downstairs intent on watching a mindless comedy and forgetting his troubles. ( _Boy troubles,_ his mind unhelpfully supplied.) As he imparted the former part of his plans to his groggy best friend, he saw it. Had he blinked, he would have missed it, but for that millisecond, plainly visible on Sherlock's face, was an expression he had never seen there before. Desire. Unmistakable, undisguised want. Try as he had to shake it off and focus on the film, that look – that look! – returned relentlessly to his mind's eye.

Sure, there had been times when John thought Sherlock might return his interest. Unnecessary brushes of fingertips, prolonged leaning against his thigh as they shared dinner in front of the television, fleeting glances over the microscope. But he had dismissed all these as being colored by his own wish to have his affections reflected back at him in those green-grey-blue eyes. This time, though. This time it was undeniable. And Sherlock didn't seem to have a clue he had noticed, didn't seem know why John had chosen that particular shirt that so clearly defined the body he had worked hard to keep.

It seemed the roles of seeing vs. observing were reversed for the evening. The question was what to do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning, a rumpled Sherlock hunched over a series of petri dishes on the kitchen table, typing manic notes into a laptop. John maneuvered around him, managing his routine by rote. After adding milk to one cup of tea and sugar to the other, he turned from the worktop to face the flat's resident insomniac.

"Sherlock, here's your – what…" He looked the detective up and down with a quizzical expression. Dressing gown, flannel pajama bottoms, and a button-down shirt. This was new. Not that he minded the way the dark navy collar contrasted with the alabaster of his neck, the top few buttons undone enough to expose the sharp contours of his collarbone. As he started to wonder what it would feel like to trace those delicate bones with his tongue, John blinked hard to bring himself back to reality.

"…are you wearing?" he concluded, hoping the delay in finishing his question wouldn't be noticed.

"Hmm? Yes, right, pancreatic excretion," came the distracted reply, one hand waving circles in the air, "needed a new… first thing I found. Ah, YES. Just as expected." He tapped something into his mobile, shut the laptop ( _my laptop_ , John thought with an inward sigh), and finally looked up. "Tea, excellent." And with that, he strode off into the living room.

John leaned back against the worktop, rubbing a hand across his face. This couldn't go on. Covert glances were turning into open stares, and there was no chance of the one and only Sherlock Holmes remaining oblivious forever, no matter how dim his emotional intelligence. He took a large sip of tea to steady himself.

"We're leaving at nine o'clock. Do you hear me? Nine sharp, Sherlock."

The music floating in from the other room shifted from a simple, calm melody into a brief screeching crescendo before returning to its original flow. _Right then._ John took one final gulp of his tea before retreating upstairs.

* * *

"Let's get this over with," came a resigned voice from behind the turned-up coat collar sweeping down the stairs from 221B at precisely nine that evening. Deciding it was the best he'd get, John nodded to no one and jogged down the stairs after him, just in time to slide into a waiting cab.

As expected, Sherlock sulked the entire ride to NSY, which left John with plenty of time to think. He had two problems. The more pressing was how to avoid detection of his no-longer-platonic feelings for his best friend, at least until he could decide what to do about it. The other, more immediate problem was how to induce Sherlock to enjoy himself at the party – or at least not ruin the night for everyone else. He was still contemplating both when he was met by an already tipsy Greg Lestrade at the door.

"John! Sherlock! Can't believe you dragged him out here!"

"Graham," Sherlock nodded curtly, sneering at the punch sloshing in the DI's hand. John rolled his eyes, then smiled cheerfully at Greg and followed him to the bar. Lestrade's holiday punch was a staple of the annual do, delicious and not a little dangerous. It was exactly what he needed. He cast an anxious glance at Sherlock, who was in the process of deducing some poor officer's gambling habits, when inspiration struck. For all his tolerance of formaldehyde and intestinal fluid, his friend was an utter lightweight when it came to alcohol. If Sherlock drank enough tonight (something this potent, two glasses might do it), he may loosen up enough to actually enjoy himself, though he'd never admit to it later. As the younger man's doctor, it was an irresponsible move. As his best friend on the other hand –

"Sherlock! Have some of Greg's punch. It's sweet, you'll like it." Accepting the offered glass with no more protest than a raised eyebrow, the consulting detective took a sip, tilted his head noncommittally, and walked off to an empty table near the middle of the room. He was here for John. John, who always made him tea without being asked. John, who was the only person he had ever trusted completely, the only person he had ever truly let in. John, who he had avoided all day out of fear that last night's… situation… would recur.

He had hoped it was just a result of being caught off-guard after his unexpected (and, if he was honest, oddly refreshing) nap. But when the doctor ( _army doctor_ , his brain interrupted) came downstairs this morning, it was clear that the night before had not been a fluke. He had to bury himself in his work in order to hide his atypically unmanageable responses to his flatmate's proximity, while John stood there calm and collected, going about his day without a care beyond departing on time for this ludicrous party.

"Here, have another!" The object of Sherlock's brooding came into focus at his elbow, passing him another full glass of punch. "C'mon, it'll help you get in the spirit!" The detective took the cup, brows furrowing at his friend.

"Look, you can celebrate the fact that Christmas is already over, and it's only 2 more days to January 1st and the end of the holiday season. What do you say? Besides, there's a rumor going around that the karaoke contest will begin shortly, and I doubt you want to be completely sober for that." Hm. If he had to suffer through something as objectionable as listening to these idiots at karaoke, perhaps his friend had a point. Sherlock looked down into his cup, took a breath, and downed the entire contents in one go. _Good_ , John thought, _that makes two, we'll get through this yet._ As John wandered away to mingle with the Yarders, ( _a bit wobbly,_ the detective thought), Sherlock placed his empty second cup beside his nearly untouched first. Completely sober to hear incompetent police officers at karaoke, definitely not a clever choice. Drunk around John Watson after his reactions of the past 24 hours, probably not wise either.

* * *

"My heart will go ooooooon and ooooooooooooooon!" wrapped up a bloke from forensics to a round of laughter and exaggerated applause. Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could tolerate this, and began scanning the room for his friend. He was by no means inebriated from one helping of punch, but it had combined with the overcrowded room to force him out of his Belstaff and suit jacket. How all the others could remain wrapped in those atrocious holiday jumpers was beyond him, and it complicated the process of finding his similarly dressed flatmate. As he was scanning the back of the room by the bar, he heard a now unforgivably drunk Lestrade take the microphone.

"Next up! Who wants a go? C'mon, I know that's a hard one to top, but surely someone can give 'em a run for 'is money!" He shouted at the room.

"How about Dr. Watson!" came Anderson's snide voice from somewhere in the back. "I'm sure _he's_ got something he wants to sing about."

" _Someone_ , more like," chimed in Donovan, whose comment was supported by a fresh round of laughter.

"Alright mate," Greg encouraged, shoving John toward the makeshift stage at the front of the room. "Whaddaya say, give it a go, eh?"

John Watson was never one to back down from a challenge, least of all in a room full of people. The four glasses of punch he had consumed throughout the night had made him a bit lightheaded, and he giggled as Greg gave him another shove and handed him the microphone. Among the Yarders, this would just be a funny story tomorrow. His flatmate, however, may very well hold this over his head for years. John looked out into the room, half hoping Sherlock had taken it upon himself to leave already.

Then he noticed a spot of holly-berry red in the center of the crowd. Collar open, sleeves rolled up revealing two nicotine patches. Sherlock had stayed. Despite successfully avoiding this party for years, he had come tonight simply because John had asked. He had endured poor renditions of 80s pop and Celine Dion because John wasn't ready to leave. He could have walked out at any point in the past two hours, but he hadn't. He was here. For John.

Then the look in Sherlock's eyes last night came back to him, mingling with the alcohol coursing through his veins _._ _Now or never, Watson_. He selected a song from the machine, then faced the room with an expression of determination and began to sing. Immediately the whispering started, and Sherlock, distracted trying to understand why everyone was so worked up, missed the opening verse. When he finally turned to the front of the room, John was walking straight towards him.

"I feel so foolish. I never noticed. You act so nervous. Could you be falling for me?" Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his face at John's words. _No. No no no. John didn't know. He couldn't. And even if he did, they were friends. He wouldn't expose Sherlock like that in front of all these people. Would he?_

"It took a rumor to make me wonder. Now I'm convinced, I'm going under." _Wait. He wasn't… he didn't mean… he had to be putting them on. Teaching Donovan a lesson. Declaring that they weren't a couple had practically become a hobby for his blogger. It had to be a joke. Didn't it?_

"Thinking 'bout you every day. Dreaming 'bout you every night. I'm hoping that you feel the same way?" There was uncertainty in the singer's gaze. _He wasn't really asking Sherlock this. Was he?_

"Now that we know it, let's really show it darlin'! Let's give 'em something to talk about. A little mystery to figure out. How about love?" Sherlock didn't know when he had stood up, but here they were, almost chest to chest, and John was gripping his hand! He was at a total loss. _What if John meant it, and he ruined his chance by saying the wrong thing?_ _What if John was just playing a prank on the Yard and he embarrassed himself by taking it seriously? He needed to leave, he needed to go home and find out what John wanted. Right now._

The confusion showing on Sherlock's face was only visible to John, but he understood immediately. He was not looking forward to going home and facing what he had just done, but the man was his best friend ( _at least for the moment,_ he thought nervously), and that left him only one choice. As he finished the song, still holding Sherlock's hand in is own, John Watson let the mic drop, picked up their coats, and led them out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's legs turned to lead as he followed John up the stairs to their flat. Their hands had fallen apart naturally as they climbed into the cab, and they hadn't so much as looked at one another since. A series of possible explanations whirred through his mind. _It was a joke, just a way of getting back at the officers who constantly made comments about them being a couple. It was the result of Lestrade's punch, which John had clearly not consumed in moderation. It was real, and John felt the same way he did, which was… what exactly?_

The only things Sherlock was certain of at this point were that he was grateful he had only finished one drink, and that their friendship needed to be preserved at all costs. He had to act fast, buy himself time to determine the right way forward. He wouldn't risk the most important relationship of his life because he misunderstood a karaoke selection.

John hung his coat upon entering the flat, and as Sherlock shut the door behind himself, he decided it was best to take control of the conversation from the outset.

"Listen, John. Before either of us says anything we – "

The army doctor rounded on Sherlock, pinning him to the door with the intensity of his gaze. His deep blue eyes searched those of the silenced detective, whose mouth hung open mid-speech, slightly afraid of what might come next. John's eyes dropped to that mouth, that gorgeous, full Cupid's bow, and he licked his own lips involuntarily. Sherlock felt his breath hitch. He was frozen in place, wanting so desperately, but knowing that the wrong move could cost him everything. Slowly, John moved closer, until they were breathing the same air.

"Alright?" came the barely audible whisper from the older man. Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat and gave a shallow nod. John's lips were warm and sweet, tasting of punch and filling him with need. He felt the other man's fingers gently weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging him gently down and licking lightly at Sherlock's lips until they tentatively parted to let him in.

John could feel Sherlock's quickened pulse beneath the hand on his neck, and he placed his other arm around his waist, pressing their bodies firmly together. He slid from his friend's soft mouth across his jaw and downward to lick a stripe up that sinfully long neck. The scent of Sherlock's posh body wash fueled his desire as he bit down and sucked just above the clavicle he had admired only this morning. His hand abandoned Sherlock's curls and trailed down his chest, settling over his now prominent erection, barely concealed through those perfectly fitted trousers.

Sherlock gasped. His senses felt as though they were short-circuiting as John dragged down his zipper, slid his hand through the narrow opening, and lightly squeezed his cock. It was as if his body switched to autopilot. He reached out and pulled John's jumper and vest over his head, while John simultaneously managed to remove Sherlock's shirt and both of their trousers. Dr. Watson ( _Captain Watson_ , his mind corrected) waited, allowing him to run his long, slender fingers over the powerful chest that had so recently made him question what he wanted from this man. He knew now, and he saw it reflected back at him in John's eyes for a brief moment before he was forcefully shoved back to the door, the army doctor's achingly hard cock pressed against his own with only the thin layers of their pants between them.

John took hold of his lips once again, and pushed his tongue past them immediately, tangling with Sherlock's as he moaned and rutted against him. The detective returned helpless cries into his mouth, panting harder and harder until he suddenly stilled, clutching at John's good shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. John came a few seconds later, resting his head against the taller man's chest as his breathing returned to normal.

As Sherlock's mind came back online, he was filled with trepidation. Looking into John's eyes, he had been sure his friend wanted this. But he had been drinking, and had not been on a date in months. What if John regretted it? What would happen to them? _Nothing_ , he decided. He would not allow that. If John woke in the morning and chose to behave as if it never happened, or told him it had been a drunken mistake, Sherlock would agree. He knew now that he himself did not feel that way, but a broken heart was bearable so long as he did not lose his closest friend.

John smiled against Sherlock's chest. He knew that without a healthy dose of liquid courage this would not have happened, but after the torment he'd experienced the past day ( _Week. Ok, fine, two months)_ , he was relieved that it finally had. He shifted his leg and winced at the way his pants stuck to his body. With a small squeeze of Sherlock's arm, he dashed into the bathroom. As he returned with a wet flannel in his hand, he noticed the unguarded anxiety in his ( _lover's?_ ) eyes as the younger man stared at the sitting room floor. Beneath the many layers of armor he wore when facing the world, Sherlock was the most vulnerable person he knew. Crossing to where he stood, John reached behind him and opened the door.

Sherlock steeled himself against the inevitable. He cleared his throat, carefully avoided the other's eyes, and nodded.

"Goodnight then."

John Watson stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked over his shoulder, a warm smile spread across his face.

"Aren't you coming to bed?"


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. He burrowed deeper into the pillow, which smelled of warmth and tea and… John. His whole body stiffened instinctually. The memory of all that had transpired last night came flooding back, along with the fear that as soon as John woke and realized what he'd done – and that he had invited Sherlock to sleep in his bed afterward – he would be embarrassed, or angry, or worse. He would blame Sherlock and move out. As he was calculating the proper angle to extricate himself from the bed without waking his ( _please still be true_ ) friend, he felt an arm wrap tightly around his torso, hand pressed flat against his chest.

"I may not be a genius, but give me a little credit. I can tell when you're awake," came the low, sleep-hoarse voice behind him. His mind raced to find a way to salvage the situation, but stopped short when he felt a soft kiss behind his ear. John continued to kiss down the back of his neck, nuzzling into the silky dark hair. His hand moved lightly over Sherlock's chest to his shoulder, pushing him down onto his back. Leaning up on one arm, John lowered himself until their lips were just touching.

"I don't regret it, you know." He pressed a chaste kiss onto Sherlock's closed mouth. "Not one bit of it." John shifted his weight so that he was lying directly over Sherlock, and brushed a stray curl out of his eyes before returning for a deeper, prolonged kiss. Sherlock ran his hands up John's sides and down his back, relishing the feeling of John's weight anchoring him to the mattress. John bit down on Sherlock's lower lip before relinquishing his mouth, licking at the deep purple mark left on his neck from the previous evening, then continuing down his slim but muscular chest.

He ran his tongue in a circle around Sherlock's nipple, eliciting a gasp from the younger man. "John," he breathed. A light scrape of teeth across the sensitive pink bud. "John, John, John. Wait." John smirked and ran his tongue down Sherlock's tight stomach, around his navel, lower… "John, wait."

"It's ok, I'll take care of you, love." "John, I've never…"

Both pairs of eyes grew wide. "You've never…?" "Love?"

"Sherlock," John returned to the head of the bed, "are you telling me that you've never… was last night your first… with another person?"

Sherlock sighed and sat up. "Yes, John, I am telling you that I've never had intercourse, and that last night was my first orgasm with another person." He studied his hands in his lap. He could feel his face burning. John hadn't regretted his actions before, but now he would surely change his mind. Maybe it would be best if he just left of his own accord, thereby saving John the trouble of asking him to go.

John looked over at his best friend, fear and anxiety and shame written clearly on those beautiful features. It broke his heart to see Sherlock like this, and in that moment he was fully aware of the depth of emotion he felt for this complicated man.

"Yes, Sherlock, I called you 'love.' And yes, I meant it." He ran his thumb across a prominent, flushed cheekbone. "I will always mean it."

Sherlock looked over uncertainly to find him smiling – that broad, open smile that was reserved only for the mad consulting detective. At the look of hope that flashed in his eyes, John let out a relieved laugh and pulled him into a kiss that grew more heated with every passing second. Forcing himself to pull back for Sherlock's sake, John whispered, "Are you sure?"

In response, John was pulled on top of the younger man, nails raking down his back. Captain Watson let out a low growl and attacked Sherlock's left nipple, sucking hard while his soon-to-be-lover fought to keep quiet.

"I want to hear you." His breath ghosted over Sherlock's wet skin, causing a shiver to run down his body. "I want to know you." He ran his fingers roughly around the other nipple, causing Sherlock to arch into his touch. "I want to feel you." He moved quickly down the bed, hooking his fingers into the band of Sherlock's navy silk boxers and pulling them off in one smooth movement.

The embarrassed flush that had been in Sherlock's face now crept down his neck and chest. He had never felt so exposed, and John meant so much. He couldn't bear it if he –

"God, you're beautiful." He looked up in surprise and found nothing but admiration in John's expression. Gentle hands ran over his torso, down his sides, across the tops of his thighs, and back up to settle on his hips. As the tension in Sherlock's body began to fade, John slowly ran one hand up the length of his mostly-erect cock. The detective's eyes closed at the touch, a small moan escaping his lips. John gave a few more strokes before lowering his mouth and licking a small bead of pre-come from the slit. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stared down at his… he'd have to figure out the right word later… who smirked back at him before licking his lips and taking the whole of Sherlock's length into his mouth.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from moaning and clawing at the sheets as John pulled back while sucking hard, ran several circles around the tip with his tongue, then plunged back down again. This was so much more intense than anything he had experienced alone, and soon his breath was coming shallow and uneven.

"John. John, I…. oh! No, wait, John…"

With a satisfied noise, John pulled slowly off Sherlock's cock, kissing his way back to his neck before looking up, one questioning eyebrow raised.

"John I don't… I know I haven't ever…" He bit his lip. He didn't know if it was ok to ask. He didn't know how far he was willing to go with another man. Maybe it would be better if he didn't…

"What would you like, Sherlock? Anything, love."

"I want you to… I want to feel it when you…"

"You want me to fuck you." It was a statement. Sherlock nodded. "You want to feel me come inside you."

"Please, John," was the whispered reply.

John reached into his bedside drawer and removed a bottle of lube. Sherlock looked on nervously as he poured a generous amount onto his fingers. John reached down and slid his hand carefully between his lover's ( _boyfriend's? partner's_ ) legs. "Do you trust me, love?" Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded. "Bear down for me," John instructed quietly, simultaneously kissing his detective and pressing one finger into his body. He gradually pushed in to the last knuckle, then waited to feel Sherlock relax before pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in. After a minute, he felt a whispered "more" against his lips, and pressed in a second finger, pulsing in and out and scissoring his fingers a few times before lightly rubbing against Sherlock's prostate.

"Ah, John!"

"Hold on to me, I've got you." Long, pale arms wrapped tightly around John's back as he pushed in a third finger. John, his swollen, neglected cock desperate for friction, rutted against Sherlock's thigh while his thrusts into that amazing body grew quicker and harder.

"Now, John, I'm ready, please." John opened the bottle cap with his teeth and poured more lube into his free hand, moaning as he finally stroked himself. Sherlock whimpered at the loss as he removed his incredibly skilled hands, but a moment later he felt a new, much larger pressure against his hole.

"It might be easier for you if we change position. If you'd prefer to – "

"No!" Sherlock blurted out, anxiety returning to his eyes. "If it's ok, I'd rather… like this. I'd like… to see you."

John leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead between disheveled curls. "Anything you want, love. It's all fine." Taking care to look directly into Sherlock's eyes, John pushed forward, gasping at the warm, incredibly tight fit of his partner's body stretching around him. He continued slowly until his entire length was buried in that unbelievable arse. After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock, eyes blown wide and darkened with desire, finally nodded, and John began to move, picking up speed quickly. Both men rapidly lost their restraint, moaning and gasping loudly enough to be heard from the street. Adjusting his angle just slightly, John began to hit Sherlock's prostate on every thrust.

"John. JOHN. JOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHN!" It took all of Sherlock's strength to keep his eyes on the man before him.

"Christ, Sherlock, fuck. You feel bloody fucking fantastic. I'm… ahh… I'm going to…"

At the thought of John Watson ejaculating inside of him, Sherlock tipped over the edge, coming in long, hard spurts between their sweat-slick bodies. Seeing him in the throes of orgasm, John lifted his legs up over his shoulders and with three more hard thrusts, he was crying out as his own orgasm pulsed deep within Sherlock.

After collapsing on the man beneath him, John slowly pulled out and rolled to the side, draping one arm heavily across Sherlock and absently trailing his fingers up and down his chest. Having regained their breath, the two men looked at each other in the early morning light. And burst into a fit of laughter.

When they calmed down enough to speak, the former virgin consulting detective said hesitantly, "John, what you said before. I mean. I want you to know that I… I also…"

"I know, Sherlock. I love you, too."

* * *

From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:

31st December

Sherlock and I would like to wish you all a Happy New Year! We will not be taking any calls or cases for the next two days, as we will be busy celebrating. And for those of you present at the MET Holiday Party last evening that were left wondering: Yes! :)

3 Comments

Correction: From the Personal Bed of Dr. John H. Watson and Mr. W. Sherlock S. Holmes

 **Sherlock Holmes** 31 December

An emoticon, John? Really?

 **Sherlock Holmes** 31 December

:):):)

 **John Watson** 31 December


End file.
